


It's a Give and Take Kind of Love

by theauthorish



Series: Red Stilettos and Handsome Devils [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bad Flirting, Boys in Skirts, First Dates, High Heels, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-26 04:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theauthorish/pseuds/theauthorish
Summary: Semi takes Shirabu on that date he promised. Also possibly fucks him for real. (That chapter is coming later though sorry guys.)





	1. Chapter 1

Eita doesn't know what he was expecting to see when he came to get Shirabu for their date, but this isn't it.

 

“Is something wrong, Semi-san?” Shirabu asks, batting his eyes innocently. “You’re staring.”

 

There is plenty wrong with this, Eita thinks. So much. Firstly, Shirabu’s outfit makes him look ridiculously good-- a soft maroon cropped sweater paired with a black mini-skirt that hugs the curve of Shirabu’s waist and emphasizes the bump of his hip, and then knee-high stiletto boots in a much darker, more elegant purple than last night’s pair of heels, with golden buttons strapped together by loops of cord that run up the whole length of them; the icing on the cake is the lipstick that paints the soft pout of Shirabu’s mouth, the same shade as the shoes are, and what looks like mascara lining his lashes.

 

There's no way Eita will be able to concentrate on their date, not when Shirabu looks like this, makes him want to forget his plans for the day just to fuck him in these clothes.

 

Secondly, there's the fact that it's cold today, just as Eita predicted. Shirabu will get cold in just this-- he could get sick. If nothing else, he won't be able to enjoy the date, which would be a shame, considering how much effort Eita’s put into planning it since last night.

 

Also, Shirabu’s calling him by his last name again.

 

This is the first thing Eita points out, and a soft blush blooms across Shirabu’s cheeks like roses in the spring as he murmurs, “Sorry, S-- Eita.”

 

Eita considers saying the comparison out loud, but he figures the sappy poetry can wait until their second or third date, at least. Instead, he smiles. “That's better. Sort of. I told you to dress warm, Shirabu,” he reproached.

 

Shirabu’s eyes narrow, and he steps a little closer, cocking his head. “What did you say, _Eita_?”

 

Eita blushes. Right. Right. “Uh. Kenjirou.” He smiles a little sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I do mean it though,” he goes on, sobering up quickly. “You’ll freeze out there.”

 

Shirabu sighs. “I don't get cold easily, Se--” Eita raises his eyebrows. “Eita. But if it’ll make you feel better I can go pull on a pair of leggings.”

 

When Eita nods, Shirabu steps aside and welcomes him in, wasting no time in heading into his room to get those leggings. Eita watches him go, and he's absolutely certain there’s more of a sway to his hips than is necessary.

 

Well. Almost certain. It's entirely possible that Eita’s just going mad because _fuck_ Shirabu is actually very _fucking_ attractive, especially when he’s dressing up.

 

Shirabu reemerges a minute later with some white leggings on underneath the skirt and boots. “Let’s go?” he asks, shooting Eita a smile for the first time since he's arrived.

 

Eita grins back. “Yeah.”

 

/////

 

Okay, no. Eita is not going mad. Shirabu Kenjirou is a fucking _minx_ , and it's going to kill Eita.

 

What a damn good way to go, he supposes, but…

 

Their first stop of the day is a cute little bunny café downtown, which Eita is happy to find delights Shirabu just as much as he’d hoped. Shirabu keeps giggling, cupping each bunny in his hands in turn and stroking their soft fur as he coos at them. Eita doesn't comment, though he wants to, because he doesn't want to break the spell; he wants to see that soft smile as long as he can. This is not the problem. If anything, it's the opposite-- a treasure Eita will store in his memory for all of his days, with each and every thing imprinted in his mind as best he can, from the way the afternoon light slants in through the windows to play across the features of Shirabu’s face to the little dimple in his left cheek, and even the soft lilt and rhythm of his voice as it curls around sweet nothings.

 

That is definitely, _definitely_ not the problem. The problem is that once the food comes and the staff takes the bunnies away for the meantime so they can eat, Eita takes the seat across from Shirabu.

 

Okay, that isn't quite the issue either. The _actual_ problem is that Shirabu keeps tracing his foot up Eita’s leg, slow and light and barely there, but also _undeniably_ there, and that makes it impossible to forget about the damn heels-- and _that_ makes it impossible for Eita to focus on their conversation. Or anything else, for that matter.

 

Not the food in his mouth, not the drink at his side, not even the way Shirabu is smiling genuinely for once, soft and lovely and innocent--

 

The toe of Shirabu’s heel ghosts over Eita’s dick.

 

Okay… not that innocent.

 

Eita chokes on his drink, coughs repeatedly in an attempt to clear his throat. He reaches for a napkin and draws it across his mouth, one hand clutching at his chest. Fucking… Shirabu.

 

Speaking of the devil, Shirabu’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, as if he isn't aware at all of what he just did. “Are you all right, Eita?”

 

“F-fine, Kenjirou,” Eita manages.

 

There’s a glint in Shirabu’s eyes that looks a lot like a challenge, and-- _oh no_ , Eita thinks, _there is no way I’m losing this early._ “Are you sure?” Shirabu asks, stepping with a little more pressure.

 

Eita takes the heel in his hands and lifts it up, meets Shirabu’s eyes. “Absolutely certain,” he says lowly. Shirabu has leggings on, so the effect is probably dampened a bit, but Eita still brushes his fingers against the back of Shirabu’s knee and a bit of his thigh before he sets Shirabu’s foot down.

 

Shirabu stares, eyes him with a mix of desire and irritation-- the bastard had probably hoped to rile Eita up without any resistance, but ha, like that would happen.

 

They both know better than that.

 

Shirabu hikes up a smirk, small and barely there, but drenched in so much smugness Eita begins to doubt whether he's won anything at all, or if Shirabu had had everything down to Eita’s exact response planned from the start. “That's good,” he replies, airily, lacing his fingers together and using them to rest his chin on. “I’d hate for our date to end early.”

 

Eita blinks. Fucking…

 

Played like a fiddle, huh? Because now there’s no backing out, no heading home sooner than planned to tear Shirabu apart and put him back together bit by bit so that the only thing he ever knows is the way Eita fucks into him, slow and hard and deep--

 

Instead, he has to see this through as long as necessary, and by the tilt of Shirabu’s head, the other knows exactly how torturous he could make it for Eita.

 

But two can play this game.

 

“So would I,” Eita retorts. He says nothing more, settles down instead to eat his food as if he's not bothered at all, as if he isn't half-hard underneath the table. Shirabu does the same.

 

The tension crackling between them like static feels familiar and yet not-- it's reminiscent of their years back in Shiratorizawa, both setters, both trying to play on the court as long as they could… but it's entirely different now. Now, there's no one getting left behind, no one left to stew in their own regret and yearning. Now what they want (and that they want the same thing at all, that fact is making Eita’s head spin) is within reach for them both. It's something they can _both_ have and share, not an ‘either or’ deal.

 

They're both smiling, of course; this rivalry has always been fun, in its own way.

 

Neither of them acknowledges it.

 

But then, they never need to. Never have.

 

/////

 

The rest of the meal goes by normally. Shirabu deigns to let Eita eat in peace, making small talk as they properly catch up in a way they didn't have the chance to last night at the reunion. (Their team, despite appearances, could be quite the rowdy bunch.)

 

Eita listens to Shirabu griping about his latest group project, hears him laugh about dumb things he’s done in college, like the time he apparently pulled out his notebook to have a spare sock fly out along with it, somehow. (“You know how to laugh at yourself?” Eita asks, grinning wide. “Shut up, of course I can,” Shiraby snaps back, with no heat, a light pink dusting his cheekbones. Eita finds it adorable.)

 

Shirabu in turn hears Eita’s complaints about his thesis (even offers to help proofread and comment, which Eita declines for now on the grounds of not wanting Shirabu to have unneeded stress on his behalf). He giggles when Eita grumbles about his parents trying to set him up on dates with all their friend’s kids-- “Guys _and_ girls, Kenjirou, I really shouldn't have told them I'm bi.”-- and rolls his eyes when Eita mentions the girls that keep eyeing him in literature.

 

“Conceited, aren't you?” Shirabu sneers, reaching for his cup to sip his smoothie.

 

Eita throws his hands up. “That's what I told myself too! But I swear! They stare at me _the whole time_ and _whisper_. It's kind of creepy.”

 

Shirabu snorts, the lines on his forehead smoothing. Eita raises his eyebrows. “What?”

 

“What do you mean, what?” Eita says. “Were you… jealous, just now?”

 

Shirabu kicks him under the table, and Eita laughs even as he winces, bending over to rub at the spot he’d hit. “You were!” He exclaims, delighted.

 

The other man flushes, twists so he’s staring out the window at the mostly empty street outside. He's frowning, but Eita knows it's forced, some sort of defense mechanism. Defense from what, Eita doesn't know; he’d never willingly hurt Shirabu-- at least, not seriously. In bed is probably another story, but they wouldn't be them if they weren't at each other's throats at least _some_ of the time. Eita’s fairly sure Shirabu knows that just as well as he himself does. “Possibly,” Shirabu admits, quiet and barely audible, sounding like he's reluctant to part with the sentiment at all. “But wouldn't you be?”

 

“Depends.”

 

“On?”

 

Eita fixes him with a level look. “On who you're jealous of.”

 

Shirabu appears ready to kick Eita again, so in the interests of _not_ having bruised knees sooner than he needs to, Eita tucks his legs up under him, sitting cross-legged in the chair he’s in. “Why would I be jealous of _you_ , Eita? I don't even like girls,” snaps the other.

 

Oh. That's right.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Eita turns what he is sure is a very _deep_ shade of red, and after a few false starts (which at the very least, garner a smile from Shirabu), he says, “Well, you're welcome to stare at me all you like when we have our next dates.”

 

“And now?” Shirabu asks, finally turning to face him again. “If I told you I wanted to stare now, what then?”

 

“I mean, you could.” Eita pushes aside his now empty plate, looks deep into Shirabu’s eyes in a way that has always gotten his partners to get flustered and entranced all at once. “If you really wanted to. But I think…” He goes on, voice thick and sweet as the honey he’d mixed into his tea. He stands, holds his hand out to Shirabu. “I think that would be a bit of a waste of our first date, don't you?”

 

Shirabu stares, but then he takes it, hoisting himself to his feet. He grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Fuck you and your hot voice and face,” but he marches out of the café before Eita can ask him to repeat it.

 

Somehow, Eita isn't surprised by this at all.

 

He sighs and shakes his head with a fond smile, following after Shirabu with his hands tucked into his pockets. (Thankfully, they were required to pay upfront, which means he doesn't have to worry about the bill now.)

 

/////

 

Shirabu is waiting for him outside, back to the door, head tilted up to watch the snow falling from the overcast sky. His legs are crossed, hands laced behind his back-- he looks remarkably innocent, especially with his wide eyes, blinking up at the soft white powder as it floats down and gets caught in his lashes and his hair.

 

Eita lets himself appreciate the sight of him for a few seconds, and then he unwinds the scarf from his neck and steps closer with a click of his tongue. “I told you it would be cold today,” he murmurs, wrapping it around Shirabu’s neck instead.

 

Shirabu lets him do it without any arguments.

 

If anything, Shirabu tugs the scarf tighter, clutching gently at the fabric. He hums in appreciation. “So where to next, Eita?”

 

Eita laces their fingers together, and this, too, Shirabu allows. It sends warmth spiralling through his chest, something precious and special that Eita wants to clutch close as long as he can.

 

He squeezes Shirabu’s hand in his, and Shirabu returns the gesture without a word.

 

“We’re going to that huge sculpture park first,” Eita tells him, leading him in the right direction. “They decorated it with a beautiful light displays, and I think the lake is frozen over enough that they're letting people skate on it-- we could do that, if you’d like, but I was thinking we’d just walk a little. Talk.”

 

“I think I’d rather not skate,” comes the answer, accompanied by Shirabu shuffling closer, his free hand coming up to wrap loosely around Eita’s arm. “But a walk sounds nice.”

 

They continue on in silence, exchanging gentle smiles when they occasionally make eye contact. Eita is still incredibly aware of Shirabu’s chosen outfit-- the way the fabric of the skirt swishes against Shirabu’s thighs as they walk, the way the heels make him just a bit taller than Eita, the way his top reveals a sliver of the slate of his stomach-- but he drowns it out with the feeling of their hands clasped together, in the knowledge that his scarf is wound around Shirabu’s neck and hasn't yet been shoved back at him.

 

He wants Shirabu, of _course_ he does. How could he-- or anyone, for that matter-- not want somebody that beautiful? But Semi cares about him more; and he wants to show that.

 

It isn't too much longer until they arrive, and Eita guides them down the paths, speaking under his mbreath about what he thinks of each piece and what they might mean. It's stupid, really, and he's only doing it to get Shirabu to laugh (it works). Shirabu responds by pretending to debate with him, and even adds his own points about the lights.

 

They get halfway through the park before they get a little _too_ into their fake argument, and an old couple passing by clucks at them for being noisy. They burst out laughing, but they stop doing it. Mostly.

 

They find an empty bench in front of one of the water fountains, and Eita has Shirabu save it for them while he goes off to one of the small stands around the park to get them some warm drinks. He comes back with two steaming cups of hot chocolate, one of which he offers to Shirabu.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“No problem,” Eita says. He sits down beside Shirabu, scooting until their thighs touch. “Your fingers are really cold. You should've brought gloves.”

 

Shirabu raises his eyebrows. His gaze flicks down to Eita’s bare palms pointedly, and then comes up again. “You were saying?”

 

“My hands are never cold. I naturally run hot, Kenjirou.” To prove his point (and just because he wants to) he sets his cup down on the bench and cradles Shirabu’s face in his palms. He brushes his thumbs across Shirabu’s cheekbones, commits the exact arch of them and the smoothness of his skin to memory. “See?”

 

It takes a beat before Shirabu can reply. “You were holding the drinks,” he says finally. Beneath Eita’s fingers, Shirabu’s face is pink from both the cold and something else.

 

Eita chuckles. “Fair enough. I’ll show you later then.”

 

Shirabu raises his cup to his lips and takes a long swallow in lieu of answering. When he lowers it again, the extra color is gone from his cheeks. The rim of his lid is marked purple, the vibrant color a distinct contrast to the pristine white-- Eita thinks he might want to see what that shade of purple looks like on him. Will it be as jarring? As bright and tempting? (Does the color even matter, if Shirabu is the one who paints it on him?)

 

“I hate these covers,” Shirabu complains, scowling down at the cup in his hands. “You end up getting so little at a time.”

 

He pops it off, exposing the drink to the cool winter air, shooting Eita a warning glance that he takes to mean he shouldn't comment, though he wants to. Instead, his mimes zipping his mouth shut. Shirabu snorts, and then brings the cup up for another sip.

 

He sighs, content. “That's better.”

 

Eita lets out a small laugh of his own. “You have a moustache now,” he explains, at Shirabu’s questioning look.

 

Shirabu rolls his eyes. “Come here.”

 

“What for?” The point is moot, anyway. Eita’s already moving, trusting blindly. Shirabu has his fingers (slightly less freezing now, thankfully) intertwined around Eita’s neck, his forehead against Eita’s. Their exhales mingle before their faces in wispy clouds, and Eita wants to laugh still, but he holds himself in check. Waiting.

 

“This,” Shirabu declares in a whisper, so soft that even if there were anyone else around, even if they were right beside them, only Eita would hear.

 

And then they're kissing. It's sweet, of course it is-- tinged a little bitter by the darker hot chocolate Eita prefers, but sweet nonetheless. It tastes, Eita imagines, like midnights by a hearth and confessions like smoke spoken into the hours before sunrise. More realistically, it tastes like a rivalry born from respect and admiration, and a love born from that competition, that tug in his gut that drives him to be better because Shirabu is getting better… to improve constantly so that Shirabu will match him every step of the way.

 

Give and take.

 

Oh. And chocolate. What else?

 

And then Shirabu’s pulling back, drawing Eita’s breath from his lungs as he goes, just like he always does. Eita’s eyes flutter open. Shirabu smirks a little. “There. Now you have one too.”

 

Eita freezes.

 

What does he…?

 

Oh my gods. “Seriously?” Eita sputters, eyes crinkling shut with the force of his amusement. “I can't fucking believe you,” he gasps out, watching Shirabu’s satisfied smirk waver, morph into a real smile and that wonderful, musical laugh of his. “You are _so_ petty.”

 

“You knew this when you asked me out, Eita.”

 

“I did. It's cute.”

 

The flowers bloom in Shirabu’s cheeks again, and the other man makes a small choked sound of protest. “Stop.”

 

Eita quirks an eyebrow. “Stop what? Calling you cute? But you are.”

 

Shirabu’s nose wrinkles. “ _Stop._ ”

 

Eita does.

 

For now.

 

He reaches between them, uses his thumb to wipe off the chocolate from Shirabu’s upper lip, then dashes his pointer finger along his own lip. He holds Shirabu’s eyes with his own as he sucks the drink from both fingers one by one, watches Shirabu shiver. They both know it isn't the cold that draws the reaction, but they pretend it was. That's just how they are.

 

Shirabu takes another drink. He comes away with more chocolate on his lips and a challenge in the tilt of his chin.

 

Eita is glad to take him up on it.

 

(And if afterwards, he finds himself using a napkin to scrub purple from his mouth, he doesn't complain.)

 

/////

 

Even distracted as they get, Eita manages to lead them to the planetarium in time for the last show of the day. There aren't that many patrons for this one-- most of them, Eita guesses, had made it for the earlier showings, and were now having dinner, cozy in their own homes.

 

Eita doesn't mind. The near emptiness does anything but subtract from the atmosphere he wants. They find seats in the back-- not because they plan on doing anything indecent, mind you, but only because it's the highest point, the one where they won't need to twist around to see everything going on on the domed screen that makes up the planetarium.

 

The show starts, but Eita doesn't really watch it. He's seen it before, when his brother used to take him. He watches Shirabu instead, watches the constellations reflect in his wide, too-pretty eyes. Eita doesn't even think he needs the planetariums help seeing stars in them, but--

 

“What did you say?” Shirabu sounds caught between laughing and outrage-- possibly because Eita had said one of the cheesiest lines in existence. Not that he’d meant to, really, it had just slipped out, but…

 

It’s difficult to see, but Eita thinks that might be a blush on Shirabu’s face. He decides to just roll with it, turning in his seat to flash his most confident grin at Shirabu. “I said I don't need the planetarium’s help to see all the stars in your eyes,” he repeats, in a deep, rumbling drawl that Shirabu seems to like.

 

Shirabu gets startled into giggling, smothering the sound with a hand on his mouth-- but it's too late. Eita’s heard him, and he definitely wants to hear it again. “You disgust me,” Shirabu snaps.

 

“No I don't. You like it when I say things like that.” Eita moves closer. Shirabu moves to shove him back, but Eita catches at his wrists and pins them to the armrest between them. “Things like you're my universe, maybe?”

 

Shirabu’s trying to glare, Eita notices, but the fact that his lips keep twitching betrays him. “Stop it.”

 

“Or…” Eita continues, coming ever closer. Shirabu tugs at his grip to no avail. His shoulders shake with held back laughter. “Maybe I should tell you that as beautiful as the moon is, it doesn't compare to you?”

 

“Stop it, gods,” Shirabu insists, back hitting the other armrest, leaving him nowhere to go. Eita keeps getting nearer, smile widening. “The moon isn't _that_ pretty anyway.”

 

“Compared to you? Of course not.”

 

“Ugh! _Terrible_.”

 

Eita spares the theater around them a small glance-- none of the ushers are taking notice of them, even though Eita’s leaning so far over the armrest he’s going to have to rest his knee on it next to move any further. He turns back to Shirabu. “The sun doesn't burn nearly as brightly as my love for you,” Eita declares, complete with a melodramatic hand on his chest. It's only his years of acting experience that allows him to do so, though, and even then, only just.

 

Shirabu snorts again, aiming a weak punch at Eita that he takes with a chuckle.

 

“I wonder if I should keep going?”

 

“Please don't,” Shirabu deadpans, straightening up with a pained grunt from the awkward position. Eita doesn't bother to move away.

 

“Are you wooed?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows a little, still beaming.

 

“ _No_.”

 

“Then I--”

 

“ _NO_.”

 

Eita laughs again in earnest, so hard his eyes squint shut. When he opens them again, Shirabu’s face has gone entirely slack, redder than Eita has seen it all day, visible even in the dim light cast by the screen around them (which they've been ignoring almost since the start)-- which is saying something.

 

“Fuck you,” Shirabu chokes out, jerking his head to the side to glare at the floor.

 

Eita’s begins to ask what the matter is, to prompt the reaction, but then he realizes how little distance there is between them, recalls how wide and brilliant the grin had felt on his face, how wild and giddy it was… the rumble that he’d put into his voice because he knew Shirabu liked it.

 

Oh, he thinks. That's why.

 

“Was that a command, _Kenjirou_?” he purrs, lifting up to return to his own seat.

 

Shirabu’s hand shoots out, seizes his collar and rumples it in a tight grip. “No,” snarls Shirabu, still glowering like he by doing so, he can set Eita on fire (it feels like he can, though, the blood in Eita’s veins boiling, scalding, as Shirabu looks at him with something so hungry as desire). “This is: take me home, Eita, and _fuck me_.”

 

Shirabu’s lost the game; the one he started so long ago today, sitting in the café and tracing the line of Eita’s muscles with his heels-- but there's something victorious in the was he releases Eita, something triumphant in the solid click of his heels against the floor as he gets up without checking if Eita’s doing the same.

 

Well, Eita can't say he would have been very upset if he’d lost either. The end result is the same.

 

“Gladly,” Eita mutters. He follows Shirabu out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried. My first ever smut and I don't eve get that into it. Sorry. Enjoy!!! (Maybe)

They're quiet on the trip back to Eita’s apartment. Eita imagines he can hear the snap of sparks and the fizzle of electricity between them, a veritable storm contained somehow in the walls of Eita’s car.

 

Shirabu’s face is unreadable.

 

His hand is also on Eita’s thigh, kneading slow, torturous circles into it.

 

Eita thanks all the deities that exist that at least Shirabu waited until they were stuck at a traffic light to do it, otherwise they probably would have crashed… Eita’s only regret is this traffic light is that broken one, the one that takes forever to swap between colors.

 

Shirabu’s palm slides higher.

 

“Eita,” Shirabu says, and Eita jolts a little in his seat. His hands reflexively tighten on the wheel.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I was wondering…” He squeezes Eita’s thigh, but the light finally,  _ finally _ changes, and he draws his hand away. Eita nearly whimpers at the loss, even parts his lips to do so-- but stops himself. Just barely. “What will you do to me, when we get there?” His voice is breathy, hitches around what might be an aborted moan--

 

And it's that quality that hooks like claws around Eita’s mind, drags his attention against his will so that he finds Shirabu, legs spread, hand cupping at his length through the thin fabric of his skirt and leggings, eyes half shut in bliss. “Eita,” he whispers. “Please tell me.”

 

And Eita--

 

Eita doesn't know how to do anything but groan, take in the sight. “ _ I hate you _ ,” he says, with fervor. His gaze remains glued to Shirabu’s form, to the bulge that looks so obscene in his little skirt, even with the leggings (if anything, the pure white of the leggings makes it seem even dirtier).

 

“Eita,” Shirabu says again, and Eita has never hated (loved) his name so much before, the way it sounds like a mantra from Shirabu’s purple, purple lips, like an offering to some forgotten god. “Eita-- the road--”

 

Eita remembers. He whips his head forward, cursing under his breath. Thankfully, there are no other cars behind him. Thankfully, he makes it before the light changes yet again.

 

“Eita.”

 

“We are not doing this. Nope. Not ever. We’re almost h--” Eita stops. It's his home, not Shirabu’s. Maybe one day, if this all works out. But not yet. “We’re almost at my place, can't you be patient, brat?”

 

Shirabu stutters out another soft mewl, one that has Eita feeling his pants tighten even more, has his grip on the steering wheel so hard he swears he hears it creak. “I can't-- not for you. I--”

 

“Shut up,” Eita hisses. “Shut up, shut up,  _ shut up _ .”

 

Eita’s eyes betray him, shoot sideways to catch the movement of Shirabu’s hands as he wriggles his leggings down enough to free his cock--

 

“Eita--”

 

“Fucking-- Fucking  _ fine, _ ” Eita growls. He forces his head straight and clenches his jaw. He won't look. He won’t. But if Shirabu wants him to talk so bad-- fine. Goddamnit, fine. 

 

He takes in a deep breath, lets his words form on his tongue from his swirling mess of thoughts, lets them linger like whiskey and smoke-- dark and bittersweet, before they fall out into the open air. “You want to know what I’d do, Kenjirou?”

 

Shirabu shivers at his name, at the tone of Eita’s voice. He nods, if the little rustle of his hair against the headrest is any indication, but Eita stays silent. 

 

Finally: “Eita-- Eita,  _ please _ .”

 

They come to yet  _ another  _ stoplight, and Eita curses. He doesn't remember there being this many stops on the way home before.

 

“I’d kiss you first,” he murmurs, channeling the thunderclouds building between them so that his voice sends another shudder down Shirabu’s spine with its quiet dominance. “I’d do it hard and slow and deep-- the exact same way I plan to fuck you later, just so you know.”

 

“I’d like that,” Shirabu pants, and Eita knows he does mean it, even if he's only saying so to work Eita up. It's definitely working, damn him.

 

“And then,” Eita goes on, “I’d take you to bed, I’d map out every cell of your body with my mouth except that place you want me most. I’d start here...” He lifts his right hand from the wheel, reaches across the center console to brush two of his fingers slow and tantalizing down from the hollow of Shirabu’s throat to his chest to his navel, to the waistband of the skirt… “And end here. And then I’d lift up again, start over.” His fingers mirror the action, shifted just a little to the left.

 

Shirabu swallows audibly, groaning. Eita watches him squeeze his arousal a little too tight-- is that all it takes, really? He considers mocking Shirabu, but just at that moment, as if reading Eita’s mind, Shirabu flips up his skirt to get a better grip-- revealing soft lace the color of fresh blood, bold and demanding Eita to touch it, peel it off slow and--

 

“Fuck. Fuck, I hate you,” Eita mutters, turning down the last road before his apartment.

 

“You’ve-- you’ve mentioned.”

 

“So why do you sound so pleased?”

 

Shirabu blinks at him, stops teasing at himself to face Eita with full seriousness. “Because it's obviously a lie, Eita.”

 

He has a point.

 

“What else, Eita?” Shirabu breathes, a plea and challenge both.

 

Eita inhales deep, exhales slow. “I’d make you beg before I did anything. I’d drive you mad, leave you a writhing, pleading mess in my sheets--”

 

“You could try,” Shirabu cuts in, reaching for Eita’s bulge instead of his own, grinding down with the heel of his palm so that Eita is forced to whine. Shirabu smirks.

 

Eita’s responding glower could melt steel. “Oh, trust me,  _ try  _ doesn't cover it. I’d  _ succeed-- _ I’d do it so well you don't remember what it means to  _ not  _ be wrecked… and I won't even have touched you yet. Not really.”

 

Shirabu presses a little firmer, but Eita bites his lip, refusing to make (any more) noise and vindicate him. Cheeky little  _ brat _ .

 

“And then when--”

 

“--if--”

 

“ _ When _ you give in… I’d finally wrap my mouth around you-- would you like that,  _ Kenjirou _ ? My lips around your cock, the tip of it hitting the back of my throat, but I wouldn't even  _ gag _ ,” Eita purrs, because fuck it, if he's going to do this, he’s going to damn make sure Shirabu comes just as undone as Eita does. “I wouldn't let you come yet, of course. You’d want to, I should think… but not yet.”

 

Shirabu moans, long and drawn out. It's exaggerated, Eita knows. It has to be. He can't be  _ this  _ affected just by Eita talking… right? Besides, it's exactly like Shirabu to do that just to get under Eita’s skin. “I didn't take you for a sadist,” he mumbles. Eita doesn't know if it's awe or fear or arousal-- or even all three-- in his voice.

 

He  _ does  _ know that it excites him, getting Shirabu like this, so he bares his teeth in a feral grin and rumbles, “Oh, Kenjirou, babe, there's a lot you don't take me for.”

 

Shirabu’s tremor this time is the worst (best?) yet, accompanied by a soft guttural noise that couldn't have been anything but entirely unintentional and honest.

 

“Do you like that?” he asks, quietly. “The idea of me being a sadist? Doesn't that make you a masochist?”

 

“Fuck you,” Shirabu snaps, with no heat. He's losing this game-- again. They both know it.

 

Eita shrugs. “I’d rather fuck you, but maybe next time.” He pulls into the parking lot of his building. “Speaking of which, where were we?” He finds his assigned spot, backs into it as carefully as he can. “I wouldn't let you come… because I’d want you to  _ wait _ . Wait until I'm inside you, thrusting at just the right angle to hit your--”

 

The engine’s barely shut off, but already Shirabu is leaping out of the door, swearing vehemently in Japanese, English, and something that sounds like French? Eita barely has a minute to wonder when Shirabu had picked  _ that  _ up when the other is sticking his head back inside to grab at Eita’s collar and snap, “You better keep your  _ fucking  _ word,  _ senpai _ .”

 

He slams the door shut and storms off. Eita heaves a sigh that's part laughter, and then follows, as always.

 

/////

 

The instant the door shuts behind them, Shirabu yanks Eita close, crashes their mouths together like he couldn't care less if they bruise. It's too much teeth, too much bite to be properly sexy, but Eita thinks that's generally their whole relationship. They make it work.

 

Still, he slows down, coaxes Shirabu into pulling back a little and settling into a better rhythm.

 

Shirabu grumbles, but he does let Eita take over, so there's that. 

 

It's difficult, but Eita manages to toe off his shoes and socks even as they kiss, kicks them haphazardly aside so they won't trip on them. He lets Shirabu keep his on; and Shirabu himself doesn't attempt to remove them.

 

Good. 

 

Shirabu grinds their hips together, and they both moan. Eita gently nudges Shirabu’s head to the side so that his mouth skates across Shirabu’s cheek, starts planting butterfly kisses down the side of his face and jawline. “Bedroom?”

 

Shirabu nods, chin brushing against Eita’s hair as he does. “Please,” he whispers, and they part, Eita taking Shirabu’s wrist loosely in his fingers and leading him there.

 

And once they're there? Eita draws Shirabu closer, walks himself backwards towards the bed so that the other follows. The shirt slides from his shoulders and drops to the floor with a clack of buttons and the whisper of fabric. Shirabu’s own sweater follows soon enough, baring the milky skin of his chest, the slate of his stomach.

 

Eita’s hands find Shirabu’s body, and Shirabu does the same for Eita. Their palms become explorers, their lips and teeth cartographers, marking up each newly revealed expanse staking a claim and a name on every discovered land.

 

Beneath Eita’s ministrations, Shirabu hums, mewls, purrs-- he’s an instrument that Eita is pleased to find he still knows how to play, plucking at the strings in just the right way.

 

In return, the way Shirabu practically sings clouds Eita’s mind like a siren song, pulls him under and makes it so Eita isn't sure he knows how to back away anymore, how to be anything but what he is here, now, with Shirabu in his bed.

 

Still, they do eventually separate so that Eita can flip them over and flick at the clasps of Shirabu’s heels so they come undone, can slide them slow and reverent down Shirabu’s legs. He lays them aside, then hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Shirabu’s leggings.

 

He lifts his gaze to Shirabu’s, burns into him with his eyes as he oh so carefully tugs them down to his ankles and slips them off as Shirabu lifts his hips to make it easier. He tosses them behind him, then moves to kiss Shirabu again--

 

But Shirabu stops him. “You wanted my heels on, didn't you?” he murmurs, with a hand against Eita’s frantic, hummingbird heart.

 

“Good point,” Eita breathes. He fumbles behind him for the heels, ignoring the weight of Shirabu’s smug smirk-- be it for the fact that Eita just admitted the shoes have been bothering him or the fact that Eita’s having trouble picking them up without looking, Eita doesn't know, nor does he really care. 

 

He holds them out to Shirabu, but the other only quirks up a brow and cocks his head imperiously. “Well, Eita? You wanted them. Put them on for me.”

 

“ _ Brat _ ,” Eita huffs, but he does lift Shirabu’s foot, slides the boot back up Shirabu’s leg before repeating the motion with the other.

 

“Can’t you think of any  _ other _ insults?”

 

Eita finishes with the heels and surges back up to bite (gently, because Eita’s a sap apparently) at the lobe of Shirabu’s ear. “Oh I could, if you wanted. Is that something you're into? Never would have thought it of you.”

 

He supposes he deserves it when Shirabu flings his own words back at him: “Eita, babe, there's a lot you don't take me for.”

 

Eita laughs, and Shirabu smiles for the briefest of moments before he catches himself and swaps it out for a smirk.

 

Shame. Shirabu has such a pretty smile.

 

“ _ Stop _ saying these things!” Shirabu complains, and Eita once again realizes his slip of the tongue too late. Eita opens his mouth--

 

And then suddenly Shirabu’s hands are on his shoulders and  _ shoving _ , rolling them over so that Shirabu is above him, straddling his hips. “I thought,” he says, “You were going to fuck me? Or do I have to do all the work?”

 

Like this, Eita can see the tent under Shirabu’s skirt easily where it's no longer hidden by his own body, can see the way the heels accentuate the curves and muscles of Shirabu’s long, long legs and his pale, perfect skin. “Well, I did take us on the date. And do all the foreplay.” His voice is rough with something-- Eita thinks it might be desire, maybe, but if that's so, he imagines his voice would be that way the entire time he’s around Shirabu, not just now.

 

Though that doesn't really matter. Now, what matters is Shirabu popping the button of his jeans from its hole, dragging the zipper down torturously so that Eita can hear each individual tooth, it seems, as it comes open. “Hips,” Shirabu orders, lifting himself up a bit to allow movement.

 

Eita obeys.

 

The jeans come off, discarded somewhere on the floor below. The boxers follow.

 

“Lube? Condoms?”

 

“Drawer,” Eita mumbles, watching as Shirabu fishes them out of the drawer, raising an eyebrow at how the bottle of lube is nearly empty. 

 

Shirabu flicks his gaze over to Eita’s “Use it often?” he asks, dryly.

 

“Shut up.” Eita lifts his hands to Shirabu’s hips, brushes the skirt higher so he can drink in the sight of Shirabu’s panties, soaked and gleaming in the center where his arousal pushes against the fabric. The red is shocking, attention-grabbing, and as much as Eita loves it…

 

It needs to go.

 

He pulls them down, somehow manages to get them over the heels with little issue and drop them to the floor (with Shirabu’s help).

 

And now they're both bare, mostly, but for those damned, damned heels that have been niggling at Eita’s mind the whole day, and the fabric of the skirt where is tickles the tops of Shirabu’s thighs, obscene and all kinds of tempting, especially where he can see Shirabu’s precome starting to form a wet spot in the center, just as it had on the panties.

 

He feels more than sees it as Shirabu drizzles lube over his fingers, feels Shirabu cant his hips back, into Eita’s hand. 

 

Eita finds Shirabu’s fingers around his wrist, guiding them behind, to Shirabu’s entrance. “ _ Senpai _ ,” he sighs, fluttering his lashes. Eita hates how his dick reacts immediately to the honorific-- a  _ senpai _ kink? Really? “Could you please prepare me?”

 

“Can’t you do anything yourself?” Eita mutters, like it's a chore. It isn't-- he starts to circle Shirabu’s rim with his index finger, dipping in until the first knuckle briefly before pulling out and repeating the motion.

 

It doesn't take long, much to Eita’s surprise. Shirabu is loose and impatient, and it seems like Eita’s barely had one in before Shirabu wants another, and wants it  _ deeper _ . Soon enough, he has three of his fingers all as far as he can put them in, with no sign of pain on Shirabu’s end. This…

 

Should not be possible, as hot as it is.

 

“Did you--” He starts.

 

“Yes, senpai, I got myself ready early this morning,” Shirabu pants out, as Eita scissors his fingers, stretches what has clearly, now that Eita is paying careful attention (he doesn't want to truly hurt Shirabu, after all), been stretched. “A little--” Shirabu breaks off with a groan, one that Eita wants to swallow up, wants to catch and keep as a reminder that for all the power Shirabu has over him… Eita is just as capable, just as in command of Shirabu.

 

Eita smirks. “There?” he asks, lowly, curling his fingers up to hit the same spot. Shirabu nearly screams this time.

 

“Yes.  _ Yes. _ ” He bucks his hips back again, searching for more-- but Eita pulls away. Shirabu mewls. “ _ Eita-- _ Eita please.”

 

“No.” Eita rumbles, bringing his hand back up to grip Shirabu’s hip. “If you're ready, that's enough, isn't it?”

 

Shirabu glares at him through narrowed eyes for a moment. Then his expression smooths.

 

Eita doesn't trust it.

 

“Semi- _ senpai _ ,” Shirabu sings, tone too saccharine to be anything but sarcastic. The smile on his face is just as wide and sickly sweet. Mocking. “May I ride your dick, please?”

 

Eita swallows. His cock twitches again at the honorific, and by the minute widening of Shirabu’s grin, the other notices this time. “You’d better do  _ something _ , brat.”

 

Shirabu blinks at him.

 

Really? Fucking… seriously?

 

Eita sighs. “Yes,  _ Kenjirou _ . You can ride me.  _ Please _ ride me-- preferably before I go gray.”

 

Shirabu takes a breath, as if to say something else. Eita braces himself to retort, probably in regards to how he's already gray but--

 

Without even a beat of hesitance, Shirabu lifts himself up--

 

And sinks right back down onto Eita.

 

Eita moans, hears Shirabu echo the sound, and then they're both heaving ragged breaths, Eita doing his best to hold himself still, to keep his hips steady, and Shirabu letting himself adjust the the fullness of Eita inside him.

 

“Ready?” croaks Eita, after a minute or two. In answer, Shirabu plants two hands on Eita’s stomach, raises himself up, and then lowers himself again.

 

Eita watches the muscles in his thighs bunch up, the way they're highlighted even more by the velvet boots that are digging into his sheets-- he’ll have to change them after this anyway, so what does it matter if they get a little dirty?

 

He lets himself take it all in-- the way Shirabu tosses his head back in pleasure, the way his walls feel around him, tight and hot and wonderful, the way sweat beads on his skin and drips down it… the way he sounds, destroyed and needy and desperate.

 

And when he thrusts up, when Shirabu opens his eyes just a crack and mutters, “Finally,” well, Eita commits that to memory too. It's just like Shirabu, after all-- and he's the only person Eita wants.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr and twitter @theauthorish !!!


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